


Welcome to the Gotham Carnival of Dreams

by Neyiea



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: "Wanna have some fun before the main event?", "Wanna have some fun? By the way main event is cancelled.", Bad Flirting, Episode: s03e14 The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, M/M, Turns into
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: “You’ve only been to a carnival once?” Jerome sounds strangely offended, but everything about him is very strange and incredibly unusual so Bruce probably shouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point. “That’s unacceptable; you can’t die without really getting to experience what’s offered.”I highly doubt there’s anything here that I want to be offered, Bruce thinks.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 39
Kudos: 229





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amvris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amvris/gifts).



> For Luna, whose Gotham fanart gives me life so you should [check her stuff out.](https://lunetteart.tumblr.com/) Please enjoy clown boyfriend trying to make his goth boyfriend smile, he doesn't really go about it the right way but he is _trying so hard._

On a scale of one to ten the amount of fun that Bruce is currently having is firmly at zero and he strongly suspects that it will stay at zero for the entirety of the night. 

Jerome, on the other hand, has only become more excited ever since he loomed behind Bruce in order to draw a frown onto his mouth. His stare via the mirror had been intense, and Bruce can still feel the pressure of Jerome’s finger sliding wetly against his lips. Somehow that touch had seemed far more invasive than a knife being held to his neck. He follows after Jerome—or is guided, really, because Jerome has an arm wrapped around his back with his hand laying against Bruce’s shoulder and keeping him close, likely so that he could stop Bruce before he got any bright ideas about darting off into the crowd—expecting that any moment now Jerome will grow bored of showing him around and will insist on dragging Bruce to the main event.

“What do you suppose is next on the agenda,” Jerome poses the question aloud, as if he actually cares to hear Bruce’s opinion. 

My bloody demise, Bruce thinks pessimistically, but if he has the opportunity to buy more time for himself he should take it, so what he says instead is:

“I don’t suppose there’s a booth for Pick a Duck around here?” That, surely, couldn’t be turned into a gruesome game that Bruce would regret mentioning.

Jerome actually stops walking, and Bruce ends up getting tugged even closer to his side because he didn’t stop at the same time and apparently went a whole three inches too far ahead.

“Pick a Duck,” Jerome repeats incredulously, his fingers flexing on Bruce’s arm. Bruce subtly tries to widen the gap between them to what it had been before, but Jerome seems uninterested in letting him budge. “That’s a kid’s game.”

Obviously. 

“I won a goldfish from it when I was six,” Bruce says, as if he needs to justify himself to someone who could watch people get obliterated in a game of human whack-a-mole and laugh at the ensuing blood and pain. “I named her Goldie.”

Jerome makes a strange noise. Bruce turns to frown at him and finds Jerome covering his face with his free hand. “A goldfish named Goldie,” he says, voice shaking as if he’s actually trying to hold back laughter. For some inexplicable reason Bruce feels somewhat offended by his reaction. 

“I was six,” Bruce reminds. “And that was the last time I’d been to a carnival, so excuse me if I can’t remember whatever else it is that people my age are supposed to do for fun around here.” That didn’t involve violence and gore. “I can barely even remember that first trip.”

“You’ve only been to a carnival once?” Jerome sounds strangely offended, but everything about him is very strange and incredibly unusual so Bruce probably shouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point. “That’s unacceptable; you can’t die without really getting to experience what’s offered.”

I highly doubt there’s anything here that I want to be offered, Bruce thinks. However, the fact remains that the more time he has the more likely it is that he’ll be able to survive this experience.

“I have no interest in hurting any of the citizens that your Maniax have kidnapped,” he tells Jerome as flatly as he is able while still held tight to the side of the madman who wants to kill him in front of an audience. Not even to buy time would he be willing to partake in some of the ‘games’ that he’s seen in this godforsaken place. “Are there any alternatives? Or do you only offer one form of entertainment, here?” He allows his tone to take on a haughty quality, like back in the office. ‘I am the ruling elite,’ he’d said, and Jerome hadn’t been impressed, ‘Killing me should mean something and you’re telling me no one’s going to see it,’ he’d said, and Jerome’s expression had shifted into something thrilled; gratified. 

Jerome already knows that he’s trying to buy himself time. If Bruce says the right things and acts the right way, then maybe Jerome would be willing to offer him even more on top of what Bruce has already been given.

“Oh, Brucie,” Jerome croons at him, and if Bruce didn’t care about cutting the night short by allowing his temper to flare up at the nickname he’d stomp on Jerome’s foot. “There’s something here for everyone, I’m sure we’ll find a fun game for you.”

They start walking again. Jerome keeps him just as close.

“I’m not going to try and run, you know,” Bruce says after waiting for a minute for the grip to either loosen or fall away entirely. “I’d doubtlessly not get very far before I’m tackled to the ground or shot.”

“Shot,” Jerome repeats incredulously. “No one’s going to shoot you. I’ve already laid claim to you. You’re mine.”

Bruce’s brain automatically tacks on the unsaid ‘to kill’; the casual way Jerome states it makes Bruce break out into goosebumps, and he finds he can’t formulate a snappy response right off the bat. Jerome’s touch feels more dangerous than it had before, and Bruce isn’t sure if it’s just in his head or if Jerome is trying to unsettle him on purpose. Maybe both.

“Aha, here, let’s start this night off right.” Jerome tugs him and Bruce has no choice but to follow his lead, allowing his eyes to fall to the ground and dreading whatever awful spectacle Jerome will undoubtedly be forcing him to look at. The night has already started, Bruce thinks, and it started all wrong. He wishes he were home. He wishes he were with Alfred. He wishes— “What do you like better; popcorn or cotton candy?” 

Bruce’s eyes snap back up to stare incredulously at Jerome’s blatantly expectant face.

“What? Would you rather we hit up an ice cream truck instead?”

“I have blood on my mouth, Jerome.” And it’s all your fault. “If I eat something I might get it _in_ my mouth.” Like when people got lipstick on their teeth, only a thousand times worse. 

Jerome’s lips purse together, eyebrows furrowing like he either doesn’t understand why Bruce might have a problem with that or he’s actually disappointed that Bruce has zero appetite right now.

“So you’re not even remotely into the idea of splitting a deep-fried candy bar?” 

“Absolutely not.”

Jerome frowns and narrows his eyes, as if Bruce is being difficult on purpose and not because of a very reasonable concern. “You’re a hard teenager to please, Bruce. I’m sure you can eat popcorn without getting any blood in your mouth.”

“Not risking it.”

Jerome sighs dramatically and tugs him again, this time away from the concession stand. 

There are very, very few games that do not involve people getting hurt, and Bruce focusses his attention on the madman at his side way more than the chaos going on around him because if he looks too hard he’ll see too much and he’s already half-certain that, if he does survive, this place is going to be haunting his nightmares for a few weeks at least. Jerome guides him forward and chatters like he’s in love with the sound of his own voice, and occasionally the Maniax following after them laugh at something he’s said and Jerome pauses, expectant, as if he’s waiting for Bruce to react, too. 

Bruce continues to direct the most impassive stare he can manage at Jerome. He expects Jerome to frown at him, but instead every time it happens his smile stretches a little wider, almost as if he’s impressed by Bruce’s stoicism or, more likely, is taking Bruce’s lack of reaction as some sort of personal challenge. 

Jerome’s arm remains around him until they finally stumble upon a ring toss game that requires absolutely no physical harm taking place. Jerome pats his arm—almost like a friendly show of affection—before he steps back, and even then Bruce is somewhat surprised that Jerome parts from his side, because he’s been practically breathing down Bruce’s neck for what feels like fifteen minutes straight. 

“I am going to win you something even better than a goldfish.”

I thought we were going to find something for me to do, Bruce bites his tongue to keep the words back. If Jerome gets distracted with winning some sort of cheap prize from a stall for Bruce on top of everything else then Bruce will end up with even more time, and maybe Bruce will actually make it out of here alive. 

Jerome takes five rings from the man running the booth who looks upon Jerome with a concerning amount of awe before glancing at Bruce with a sick amusement that Bruce is trying to get used to because that’s how almost everyone looks at him, in this place. He crosses his arms and resolutely stares at the rows of wooden pegs, trying to ignore the screaming and crying and riotous laughter happening behind him. It proves impossible to completely tune out, though, and as much as doesn’t particularly want to talk to Jerome he also doesn’t want the sounds at his back to be the only thing he can hear.

“I have a question for you,” he speaks up as Jerome is preparing himself for the first throw.

“Oh? And what would that be?”

Jerome’s voice is oddly delighted that Bruce is inciting conversation, similar to the tone he had taken as he’d asked Bruce ‘You’re saying I need an audience?’. Bruce tries not to think too hard about it and very carefully doesn’t cast a glance to the side, just in case Jerome has started staring at him with a weird smile again. 

“This is the Gotham Carnival of Dreams, according to the official signage,” Bruce says, and Jerome snorts at him before he takes his first shot and misses, hissing a curse out under his breath. “But we usually just call it the boardwalk circus. What’s the difference? I assume you would know.”

“Circuses have _entertainers_. A ringmaster, jugglers, acrobats, alcoholic clowns, whorish snake charmers,” he lists, the last two additions grit out much more viciously than the others as he throws the ring in his hand hard enough that it actually whirls right out the back of the stall before his tone brightens again. “Usually bigger animals too, if it’s any good. Carnivals have rides, games, sometimes shows but nothing like a circus exhibition. Circuses usually have one main focus of attention, but carnivals are spread out so that people can choose what they’re doing at any given time, so.” Jerome throws another ring, and this time it catches and loops around one of the pegs. “When you Gothamites call this place a boardwalk circus, you’re wrong.”

“What about when the main event happens?” Bruce keeps his eyes focused on the wooden pegs, arms crossing tighter around himself. “That’ll be the focus of almost everyone’s attention, I’m sure. There’s a ring here, too, isn’t there? Like we’re in a big top.”

Jerome laughs as he tosses another ring, it lands on a peg again. 

“But we’re not actually in a tent, Bruce.”

“Well… Now I know.”

Attempted execution at a carnival. This seems like the start to a young adult mystery novel, except it’s just one of the many misfortunes of his life thus far.

Bruce holds back a sigh as Jerome tosses his final ring successfully. He eyes the wall of prizes for lack of anything better to do and spots absolutely nothing that he’d be interested in carrying around until he’s killed or rescued or escapes. With his eyes averted he doesn’t see Jerome silently demand two more rings or the frantic movement of the man in the booth as he drops three additional rings onto wooden pegs.

When he does turn back he notices movement in his peripheral vision, which prompts him to finally look at Jerome again. 

“You’re doing more?”

“Have you seen the prizes for three rings, Bruce? I told you I’d win you something better than a goldfish, not something worse.” He tosses a ring, misses, and his smile twitches. He turns to Bruce. “Besides, what about—what’s that?!” His eyes widen, obviously dramatized, as he points at something over Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce, despite everything, finds himself pursing his lips to keep the line of his mouth completely flat as he very slowly, very obligingly turns, gaze unfocussed to keep from actually catching sight of any of the many awful things happening all at once, and when he turns back Jerome is out of rings and the last one is secured around yet another peg.

“Seven out of ten ain’t bad, huh?” Jerome folds his hands behind his back and appears to preen. “You going to pick your prize or would you rather I surprise you by giving you no choice in the matter?”

The slight smile that Bruce had been stifling abruptly fades away. Jerome’s eyes dart over his face like he can tell that Bruce’s blank look is no longer due to the hidden amusement at the obvious cheating, and Bruce is far too invested in his ongoing and imminent brush with death to try and figure out what Jerome’s expression means. Waiting for the ‘main event’ to begin without knowing how much time he has left is starting to drain him, and perhaps it would be better to know for sure how much time Jerome at least thinks that he has. Time for one game? For two? Will it be pushed off until the clock strikes midnight?

Bruce looks away from him.

“Speaking of having no choice in the matter,” he starts, and he misses the grimace crossing over Jerome’s face. “Do you have an estimated time for when this will all be over? Not knowing is worse than knowing, I think. As the star of your main event I deserve to know when I’m going to be dragged onto the stage, don’t I?”

“Kind of grim change of topic, there, Brucie.”

Bruce glances at Jerome from the corner of his eye. “An hour ago you broke into my house to kill me there before I convinced you to give me a public execution instead. It’s not a change of topic so much as a reminder of what I’m actually here for.”

Jerome… Pouts at him. Or at least that’s what it looks like. He’s so bizarre, Bruce might smile at him if not for the whole ‘you are definitely going to try and kill me’ thing and the ‘you ordered the death of the man who is my second father’ thing, and that’s a weird enough realization that he pulls his gaze away to look at the prizes, distantly wondering what is wrong with him for even thinking of smiling at all at a time like this. 

“Hmm, well, choose a prize first and _then_ I’ll tell you how much longer you’re stuck with me.”

“Do I have to carry it around the entire time?”

“Nah, you can give it to one of these guys to hold onto.” Jerome gestures to the Maniax that have been trailing behind them since the very beginning, and Bruce subsequently chooses the largest stuffed animal that he can—an incredibly pink panda—out of spite. 

They leave the stall behind and Jerome’s arm comes up around him again. 

“Okay, so, here’s the thing,” Jerome starts with a brazen air. “I woke up, and I definitely wanted to kill you. I got to your house, and I still wanted to kill you. _Then_ we had that fun little conversation where I threatened you with a knife and you were obstinate in the face of danger which ended with you all but demanding an audience to be killed in front of as an act of manipulation and I couldn’t help but think; wow, here’s someone who _understands_ me.”

“So you gave me more time, even though you realized I said it to buy time.”

“Exactly.” Jerome’s arm squeezes around him, like a hug, and Bruce almost trips over his feet. “Also, you’re very cute. Bordering on pretty, if I’m being honest.”

Bruce stops walking.

“Right,” Bruce says stiffly. “Sorry, I think that maybe your brain isn’t completely recovered from the thaw, because you tell me that as if my physical appearance has anything to do with the current situation.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” Bruce casts a glance up at Jerome’s pointed smile and dancing eyes. His thoughts begin to race. Jerome constantly holding him close, Jerome smiling at him, Jerome offering him food, Jerome winning a prize for him…

No, Bruce thinks, and Jerome continues to stare at him like he’s eagerly waiting for Bruce to connect the dots. Yes?

“You’re going to have to tell me plainly, because I’m finding this entire situation very difficult to read. Did you bring me here to kill me, or did you bring me here on a date?”

“A little of both, at first.”

Bruce feels his entire body go tense with anger.

“A little of both?”

“At first.”

“When did it stop being _a little of both_?”

Had Jerome been thinking about this even before he’d given the order to kill Alfred? Could Bruce have done something to save him, if only he’d known that Jerome’s intentions were twisting? 

“I dunno.” Jerome has the audacity to shrug, as if it’s no big deal. “It’s been shifting from kill to date gradually, but, hey, the answer to ‘when will this all be over’ is no longer ‘when I kill you’, so I think we can both agree that you can loosen up a little, maybe even let yourself have a good time.”

“Jerome, you—” Absolutely _fucking unbelievable_ degenerate murdering psychopathic _fuck_. Bruce sucks in a breath through his gritted teeth to keep from either cussing him out or pushing him to the ground. “Twenty minutes ago you held a knife against my throat in a very clear threat before stabbing someone else and painting their blood all over my mouth.”

“My flirting has always been somewhat unconventional.” Jerome playfully ruffles his hair and Bruce stares up at him, too many infuriated comments building up in his mouth to actually verbalize any of them. “Wanna play some skee-ball? You don’t have to murder anyone to win that.”

“Jerome,” Bruce grits out lowly, hands curling into tight fists at his sides. “I’m not in the mood to play any games with you.”

“Fine, fine.” Jerome tugs him closer, grinning far too wide than the situation deserves. Bruce can feel his nails dig crescents into his palms as his hands clench tighter. “We can talk on the carousel and play skee-ball later.”

Bruce glares at him, but Jerome appears undeterred by the rage sparking in Bruce’s eyes. 

The carousel is filled with pairs; completely _unromantic_ pairs. There are people with red smiles and weapons dragging civilians on with them and settling directly across from them, easily within range to hurt them should their victims for the night try to run. It’s horrifying, the way harm is being promised so easily, and as Jerome tugs him up onto the platform Bruce knows that he won’t keep silent even if it means the scale which had shifted to ‘date’ over ‘kill’ is going to start shifting back to Jerome’s original intention for the night.

Jerome pats the seat of a carousel horse and Bruce lifts himself up to sit side-saddle, one hand tightly braced against the horn of the saddle which extends into a swirling, golden post stretching to the top of the carousel. Jerome, for his part, doesn’t situate himself upon the horse across from Bruce. He merely stands beside Bruce and wraps his fingers around the stabilizing post, clearly intent on looming just as close as he has for the entire evening thus far. 

His gaze is intense. Bruce doesn’t allow himself to falter underneath it, even as the carousel starts to spin and the cheery music violently clashes with the reality of this entire situation. 

“Is there a plan for all this madness?”

Jerome leans a little closer, having to look up at him for the first time now that Bruce has a slight height advantage. 

“These people don’t want a plan,” he starts, not unkindly. His tone is so reasonable; Bruce wants to kick him for it, wants to push him down, wants to wrap his knuckles with his father’s watch and deck Jerome’s face just like he had with Tommy Elliot, except this time he thinks that maybe he wouldn’t stop. “They want an excuse. A mother who dreams of strangling her child. A husband who wants to stab his wife.” He gravitates even closer, eyes bright with the many coloured lights of the carnival, and Bruce subtly shifts a little further back to widen the gap between them again. Jerome must notice, because his mouth twists, but he stays put. For now. “All they want is someone to tell them: do it. Kill them, it doesn’t matter.” Jerome stares at him with unblinking eyes, like an eerie request for Bruce to understand the reasons behind all of the revolting acts currently taking place. “It doesn’t.”

Bruce’s hand clenches around the horn.

Do it, it doesn’t matter, do it, it doesn’t matter.

Do it, he deserves it. He killed Alfred. Kill him, it doesn’t matter. 

The anger blooms in his chest again, white-hot with loss, but he tries to smother it. 

I won’t, he tells himself. I’m not like them, I’m not like you. I won’t kill you, it does matter. 

“You won’t get away with it.”

“Oh, Brucie, take a look around. Can’t you see that I already have?”

Bruce's eyes stay where they are, locked on Jerome’s face, which is the lesser of all other evils at the moment. 

“A few dozen brainwashed Maniax can’t keep the city hostage forever.”

Jerome chuckles and moves in closer again. If Bruce backs away much more he’s going to end up falling off of the seat. “Duh. You think I’m under the impression that my special night is going to last forever?”

Bruce frowns. Jerome grins. It’s very par the course, for them.

“What’s the point of it all, then?”

“You’re so full of questions, Bruce. When I brought you up here I was kind of hoping we’d talk about how I don’t want to kill you any more while staring deeply into each other’s eyes. Though one out of two isn’t too bad, I suppose,” Jerome drawls with a smirk, fluttering his eyelashes coyly. 

“The point, Jerome,” he prompts sharply, and Jerome rolls his eyes before giving in.

“Fine, fine. The point is that all these people out here; looting, robbing, killing. They’re the people who wash your car, who pour your coffee, who take out your trash.” His hand on the stabilizing post begins to slowly drift down, on a collision course with Bruce’s own hand. “And what happened the moment the lights went out? They showed their true faces.” His smile widens. “How does it feel knowing how much they want to open up your rich-boy veins and bathe in your blue blood? Not that I’d let them, darlin’,” he coos. “You’re mine, after all.”

This time Bruce’s mind doesn’t automatically add the unsaid ‘to kill’, and he can’t tell if it’s better or worse.

“There are good people in Gotham.” He doesn’t let his eyes fall away as Jerome’s hand settles at the bottom of the golden post. The slight brush of skin on skin is nothing compared to the charge that he feels building up between them; an unstoppable force and an immovable object. “Not everyone is like these people.” Like you.

I’m not. Alfred wasn’t. 

“Maybe so,” Jerome says agreeably and his hand drifts down further, holding Bruce’s over the post. “But do you know where those people are? They’re hiding away. They’re not doing anything to stop what’s going on right now.” Jerome’s fingers squeeze his. Jerome’s eyes are burning with a demand that Bruce see things his way, that Bruce understand his point of view. “Those who realize that something wrong is happening but do nothing to put an end to it, aren’t they just as guilty as the ones doing the wrong in the first place?”

Bruce’s mouth feels dry. He’s not sure if they’re still talking about the carnival, or if Jerome’s fixating on something else.

“Sometimes it’s difficult to do the right thing.”

Sometimes it’s hard to be brave. 

Jerome laughs, and it’s a rough, grating sound that makes Bruce’s hair stand on end.

“Heroes don’t exist, Bruce, it’s better for you to learn that now than be sorely disappointed later.”

“The difference between a hero and a good person is just a secret identity and a costume. Maybe you all have killed so many good people tonight that you think there are none left who are willing to fight for what’s right.” Bruce’s eyes sting as he thinks of Alfred, but looking away from Jerome is a weakness that he cannot allow himself in this moment. “There are, though.” And Bruce knows that not all of them will have hidden themselves away.

Jerome watches him intently. Bruce can feel Jerome’s breath waft across his face.

“You’re getting all teary-eyed,” Jerome eventually says under his breath. “What’s this all about, darlin’? Don’t tell me you’re still upset about the butler.”

“His name,” Bruce begins roughly, “was Alfred.”

His temper flares up and this time he gives in to one of the many urges that he’s been suppressing, striking upwards and kneeing Jerome sharply in the stomach. Jerome’s breath leaves him in a rush and he folds over, leaning against Bruce for support. His hand over Bruce’s begins to grip even tighter, refusing to let go even now that he’s in pain. Bruce feels Jerome start shaking. 

Then he hears the laughter. 

“You are so much more fun than you look, Bruce,” Jerome tells him between breaths, huffing against Bruce’s neck before he pulls back. He smiles as if Bruce’s act of minor violence had only just made him more interested in Bruce. “What would you have done if I slaughtered the butler myself?”

Bruce spits in his face.

Jerome goes completely still. 

Something vicious and victorious claws inside of Bruce's chest. Jerome is struck speechless for the first time tonight, his eyes wide as they flit across Bruce’s face. His free hand slowly lifts up to his glistening cheek to press into the wet splatter of saliva. 

His other hand grips Bruce’s tight enough to hurt, but Bruce doesn’t allow himself to react to the pain.

“Oh, Bruce,” Jerome whispers with a fond tone. “We haven’t even kissed yet, you delightful little deviant.”

Confusion swiftly wells up inside of him and his eyebrows furrow. He’d expected that Jerome might try to hit him for his impudence, not… This.

“You killed Alfred.” And somehow I’ll make you pay for it without killing you, without proving you right. I refuse to give you the satisfaction. I refuse to use Alfred’s death as an excuse. I will not kill you. I will not kill. “We’re not going to kiss, ever.”

The carousel begins to slow. Jerome stares at Bruce like he’s the missing piece of a puzzle that Jerome has been fervently searching for; important and irreplaceable and one of a kind. The weight of his stare makes something entirely new churn in the pit of Bruce’s stomach; restless, unsettled, electrified. He tries to ignore it. He’s not entirely successful. 

No one has ever looked at him like this before.

“That’s what you think,” Jerome tells him with a widening smile. He tears Bruce’s hand away from the post and entwines their fingers. “You’ll find I can be very convincing; hence my status as a cult-leader.”

“Do I look like an easily swayed lunatic or idiot to you?”

“No,” Jerome murmurs, pulling Bruce off of the saddle. His eyes do a full-body sweep; slow on the way down, slow on the way up, scrutinizing and approving all at once. “No, you don’t.”

Bruce looks away from Jerome’s blatantly flirty expression and gazes down at their conjoined hands, instead.

Jerome tugs at him, playful, and Bruce follows him off of the carousel. 

If Jerome’s arm around him had felt weirdly clingy, then the feel of his fingers interlaced with Bruce’s own feels just as possessive as it does affectionate. Bruce’s mind is rushing and his heart is racing and his emotions are out of control; flashes of anger and disgust and something else interrupting his typical rationality. He feels unbalanced; being led around by a madman who’d rather kiss him than kill him. He feels like maybe he’d be dealing with this situation better if Jerome’s ultimate goal for the night was still to murder him in public.

He feels like, if Jerome weren’t the reason behind all of this wickedness and—most unforgivably—the reason why Bruce had been torn away from Alfred’s side forever, he might not mind the way Jerome looks at him, the way Jerome intrudes into his space. But Bruce cannot forgive, and he cannot forget, and he cannot give into Jerome’s whims.

And, no matter what, he cannot prove Jerome right despite the many sins that he’s committed that Bruce could use as an excuse. 

Don’t kill him. It does matter.

He attempts to pull his hand free from Jerome’s grip. Jerome just holds him tighter, turning to glance at one of the Maniax behind him.

“Find me a wet-wipe, or a cloth soaked in vodka, whatever.”

Bruce tries to tug his hand away a second time, and Jerome backs him up against the gate surrounding the carousel. 

“You look like you’re thinking about kneeing me again,” Jerome says, eyes flashing with an emotion that Bruce decides to tentatively label as ‘charmed’.

“I would, but I get the feeling that trying to kick you will only make you more difficult to get rid of.”

Jerome laughs again.

Definitely charmed.

Bruce flounders; he is prepared to deal with wicked people wanting to kidnap him or hurt him or kill him, he is not prepared to deal with the reality that they—or rather, one—might like him.

“Okay, look; you’re angry and you’re sad. I get it,” Jerome tells him, even though Bruce is absolutely sure that he doesn’t get it. At all. “But are you really going to let one little murder ruin our whole night together?”

Grounded again by a fresh bloom of rage Bruce feels his lips pull back into a sneer, baring his teeth as if he means to tear into Jerome’s throat. “What do you think?”

Jerome doesn’t look any less charmed. He might even look _more_ charmed.

“I think if you don’t at least try to have a good time tonight I’m just going to have to keep you with me until I see you smile, even if it takes me hours, days, weeks.” Jerome’s smile morphs into a serious look and Bruce’s skin pricks. “I already have you, it wouldn’t be that hard to keep you. I want you to have a good time with me, Bruce.”

Ah, a threat. Bruce can handle that better than proclamations of romantic interest. 

“If you want me to have a good time so badly then you can start by telling the Maniax who’ve been tailing us ever since you brought me here to back off.”

Jerome’s eyes flicker over his face.

“You’ll stop being a stick in the mud on purpose if I take you around alone?”

If they’re alone, it will be easier for Bruce to escape.

“Sure. I won’t let _one murder_ ruin our time together—” lie, lie, lie “—and in return when your special night comes to an end you don’t cart me away with you.”

Jerome grins, bringing Bruce’s hand up to his mouth. “We have a deal, then.” He presses a lingering kiss to Bruce’s knuckles and Bruce very carefully does not react to it. “I won’t tell you what’ll happen if you keep being such a grouch on purpose, darlin’, but just know that you won’t like it.”

“Colour me surprised,” Bruce manages to haughtily drawl, and Jerome chuckles before his attention is caught by something off to the side.

A soaking cloth is pressed into his hand. Bruce can smell the alcohol wafting off of it even before one of Jerome’s hands clasps the back of his neck while the one with the cloth rises up to his face. Bruce tries to pull back, but there’s nowhere for him to go.

“Calm down. I’m not trying to get you drunk off of fumes, or whatever it is you’re thinking,” Jerome soothes lowly before he raises his voice. “You guys can get lost now, by the way,” Jerome says to his followers, not taking his eyes off of Bruce as the cloth does an initial sweep, following the path that Jerome’s finger had taken half an hour ago. “I’ve got it covered from here.” He rubs at Bruce’s mouth, scrubbing hard enough that Bruce is sure he’s rubbed away the topmost layer of skin, at least. 

But, on the bright side, that does mean he’s likely cleared away all of the blood and any of the disgusting, lingering bacteria that might have come hand-in-hand with it. 

“There. Can we finally get some popcorn, now?”

“Fine,” Bruce says, nobly holding up his end of the deal. Jerome smiles at him and ruffles his hair. When they turn to go his arm wraps around Bruce’s shoulders again, and by now the feel of it is familiar even though Bruce wishes it weren’t.

At least they’re no longer holding hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3

Perhaps he should have expected it, given Jerome’s proclivity for being clingy and making himself impossible to ignore, but the first time Jerome lifts a kernel of popcorn up to his mouth with the unstated intent that Bruce will allow Jerome to feed it to him Bruce’s mind freezes and his heart skips.

“You must be—” Joking, he cannot say, because Jerome pushes the popcorn into his mouth before Bruce has a chance to finish. Jerome’s fingertips skim against his lips, and something inside of Bruce that is both _hot_ and _not anger_ sparks briefly now that the touch isn’t bloody and degrading. He chews and swallows, purposefully impassive, trying to ignore the pleased smirk on Jerome’s face. “I hope that you’ve washed your hands recently.”

“Cleaned ‘em with the cloth I wiped your frown off with.” Jerome presses another kernel to Bruce’s mouth. Bruce parts his teeth, the popcorn slips inside, and he’s honestly surprised that Jerome’s fingers don’t come in with it. “Me next,” Jerome says with a grin before opening his mouth.

Bruce startles and, instinctive, throws a kernel at Jerome instead of feeding it to him. It harmlessly bounces off of his cheek. Jerome blinks at him, bewildered, before barking out a soft laugh. 

“Bruce, how is your aim so bad when you’re less than a foot away from me?”

“It’s because I’m too close,” Bruce mutters, flustered and wishing that he weren’t. Wishing that he’d thrown the popcorn right into Jerome’s throat and made him choke on it. Wishing that he at least felt like he knew what he was doing. “I’d throw better from farther away.”

“A likely story,” Jerome goads, opening his mouth again.

Bruce takes an entire handful and lobs it at Jerome’s face. Jerome sputters, maybe for show and maybe not, and unwinds his arm from around Bruce’s shoulders to take the bag out of Bruce’s hand.

“I’ll be in charge of the popcorn from now on,” he says, looking intently at Bruce as if he expects him to make a break for it immediately after Jerome has let go of him. As if Bruce would be so foolishly hasty. Bruce is going to get Jerome’s guard down so that he can escape and have enough of a head start that he can avoid being tackled to the ground. Bruce is going to do this, even if it means he has to accept being hand-fed popcorn as if he and Jerome are well-established sweethearts.

They continue on, shoulders brushing because Jerome can’t seem to stand it if he’s not deeply entrenched inside of Bruce’s personal space, and Bruce doesn’t necessarily become used to the sensation of Jerome’s fingers grazing against his lips but he also doesn’t try to bite Jerome whenever the touch seems to linger for longer than it should. Jerome’s attention flickers; Bruce, the source of new screaming, Bruce, a violent game, Bruce, a frantic cry of Jerome’s name, Bruce, Bruce’s mouth, Bruce’s eyes, a spinning death trap of a ride—

“Let’s go on that.”

Bruce stares at the quickly whirling airborne compartments, already dizzy just from looking at them. 

“Approximately how safe do you suppose it is?”

Jerome huffs out a chuckle, sliding another piece of popcorn through Bruce’s teeth.

“You do realize that this is an established park that we’ve taken over for the night and everything is likely kept up to code to avoid this place getting sued for a kid getting flung out of a thrill-ride, right?” Jerome pats his back, companionable, before he crumples up the empty popcorn bag and tosses it into the trash. “Live a little, Brucie. You might find that you enjoy it.”

It would probably be in poor taste to say ‘no, I don’t want to live a little’ to someone who had literally died. Not that Bruce suspects Jerome would care overly much about such a faux pas.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “But could you stop calling me ‘Brucie’? I don’t like it.” And, if anything, hearing it constantly made him feel even less endeared towards Jerome than he already was, not that he _wanted_ to feel _endeared_ towards Jerome. He just wanted to stop thinking of Tommy Elliot, of punching Tommy with his father’s watch around his knuckles, of what it might feel like to punch Jerome the same way, because if he starts to think about it—

“Aw, but it’s so cute,” Jerome wheedles, reaching up as if he means to pinch Bruce’s cheek. Bruce lightly slaps his hand away and Jerome chortles at his reaction. 

“It’s what my childhood bully called me.”

“Bruce Wayne, richest kid in town, bullied? Say it ain’t so, darlin’.”

“I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me or not.”

Jerome’s arm wraps around his waist and reels him close as he shepherds Bruce into the lineup for the ride. “Gentle teasing,” Jerome sing-songs. “Is very different from malicious teasing. Some kid was mean to you, huh? If I track him down to teach him a lesson will you give me a kiss?”

Bruce fights to keep his expression stony as his cheeks grow warm. He very pointedly doesn’t look at Jerome and hopes that the white smeared around his eyes is doing at least a little to conceal the flush on his face. 

“That won’t be necessary.”

Bruce had dealt out that lesson himself under the watchful eyes of Alfred. 

The spinning compartments of the ride slow and drift back down to earth, and Jerome eagerly tugs Bruce forward as the previous riders disembark, some of them so unsteady on their feet that they almost fall to the ground. They sit close together, a single bar pressed down against their laps, and Bruce clutches onto it with both hands as soon as it locks onto place.

Jerome hums, pointedly looking down at his obvious, white-knuckled death-grip. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that you seem a little stressed.” 

“This might have already occurred to you,” Bruce stiltedly begins as the ride lifts up. “But I don’t get out very often.”

Jerome laughs, shifting even closer so that their hips and thighs are pressed together. It’s like he can’t help himself, like he can’t resist getting closer and closer, like he’s drawn towards Bruce as one magnet is drawn towards the opposite pole of another. Polar opposites attracting. A teenager who was content to tell others, ‘do it, kill them, it doesn’t matter’. A teenager with growing determination to not kill at all, no matter what could be used as an excuse.

An unstoppable force and an immoveable object coming face-to-face.

“If you feel like you’re going to spin right out of your seat you could always just hold onto me for stability.”

“And give in to your obvious ploy?” The compartment starts to spin, slowly at first, picking up speed every few rotations. Bruce feels faint, and he doesn’t think it’s entirely due to the ride. “I am not letting go of this bar.”

“I’ll hold onto you, then,” Jerome says before the ride takes a sudden drop. Bruce bites back a scream as Jerome lets out a delighted shout, his arm hooking around Bruce’s shoulders, his other hand resting over Bruce’s closest one on the bar. When Jerome speaks Bruce can feel his lips brush against the shell of his ear. “Isn’t this romantic?”

“No,” Bruce responds quietly, already dizzy, stomach swooping when they drop again and start spinning even faster. The lights of the carnival are blurring together and he shuts his eyes, disoriented from the sight of it. “Don’t let go.”

He can hear Jerome laugh as everyone else starts to shout. He can feel Jerome’s grip on him become tighter and even if it’s foolish of him it does actually make him feel a very little bit safer. 

“I won’t,” Jerome promises.

They drop.

Bruce shrieks. 

He hangs on for dear life as they spin and fall during the longest five minutes of Bruce’s life thus far. He muffles screams as they drop and feels flooded with unending waves of vertigo and through it all Jerome laughs and laughs and holds him tight. Bruce’s stomach swoops and flutters, near-sick with a sensation of nervous butterflies, and sometimes he’s almost certain that he can feel Jerome’s lips brushing against the side of his face and he’s not sure if it’s an accident—the pull of their spinning path knocking them tighter together—or if it’s on purpose. It’s not until he feels the ride start to slow down that he opens his eyes, heart racing and woozy. The world before him is still streaking together from his vantage point in the ride so he darts his gaze towards Jerome, one sharp feature in an otherwise hazy world. 

Jerome, already smiling at him, smiles wider. 

“Wanna go again?”

“Please just let me play skee-ball,” Bruce wheezes out and Jerome laughs; bright, brilliant. He pats Bruce’s hand as they finally begin to descend. 

“Sure thing, Bruce.”

The bar across their laps unlocks and Jerome slides out first, a spring in his step and an excited gleam in his eye as he turns back to a slow-moving Bruce, offering him a steadying hand as he steps out. Bruce pauses for a moment, wary despite the fact that they’ve already held hands before. All of their amiable touches have been initiated by Jerome and taking his hand would feel like an acceptance of some kind, or a permission to take things further. But also, if he trips on his own feet while trying to get back to solid ground Bruce is either going to end up getting caught by Jerome or fall flat on his face, both of which are even worse than enduring his brief assistance. 

Bruce reaches out. Their fingers and palms glide together. Jerome’s grip on him is steady and tight.

The sensation of _heat_ and _not anger_ floods through him again, more sustained than the last time, as he steps back down to earth. Jerome lets him go—which Bruce is distantly surprised by—but his fingertips playfully skim over Bruce’s palm as his hand drops away and Bruce’s fingers twitch, as if he means to stop the retreat.

He feels unsteady, unmoored, and it’s not only due to the lingering light-headedness from the ride. 

They play skee-ball, Bruce gets a higher score. Jerome demands a rematch, Bruce wins a second time. He finds himself having to stifle a smile again when Jerome whines about cheating—far too dramatic to be genuine—and he comes to the startling realization that he’s not having a completely terrible time which, considering the circumstances, is by all rights what he should be having. Bruce could be having fun if he were a normal teenager on a normal date on a normal night, but nothing about this situation is normal.

And Alfred is still dead.

He’s quiet, pensive, as Jerome leads him ever forward into the night. Making the deal with Jerome didn’t actually allow Bruce to forget what Jerome had done, what Jerome was still doing simply by existing in this space. Being here visibly was spurring his followers on more and more, and Bruce couldn’t even save himself from Jerome’s twisting and doting machinations so how could he save anyone else? The constant reminder of terrible deeds should be making him sick with righteous anger, not only at Jerome but at everyone involved; cult-fanatics who’d been looking for an excuse to enact violence, who’d been waiting for someone to tell them ‘do it, it doesn’t matter’ and who took those words at face value without caring about the impact of their actions.

Bruce could be having fun if anything about this situation were normal, but it wasn’t, so he shouldn’t.

Jerome’s pace slows as they walk past more game booths, and when Bruce darts a glance up at him he can see Jerome narrowing his eyes, as if wondering which prize Bruce might like best since he—evidently—didn’t care overly much for the pink panda which had disappeared into the crowd when the Maniax following them had dispersed. 

“You’re not thinking about trying to win me another stuffed animal, are you?”

“No,” Jerome drawls slowly as they pass the booths, such an obvious lie that Bruce can feel his lips twitch in a barely-there smile that he immediately wishes didn’t happen because Jerome’s intense gaze zeros in on him as if he thinks he’s on the cusp of some sort of victory for making Bruce emote something other than anger or indifference or a bold challenge. 

“You realize that games like these can be rigged, right?” Bruce averts his gaze, tamping down the strange flutters in his stomach.

“This is a carnival, Bruce,” Jerome whispers directly into his ear. Bruce feels warm and he wishes he felt angry at the invasion of personal space. “Every game can be rigged. Sometimes you just have to cheat back. Level out the playing field.” 

“Act like there’s something behind someone’s back so that they turn around, and when they look at you again you’ve apparently already thrown your last ring and it managed to land on a peg,” Bruce adds as dryly as he is able.

“Exactly. It’s like we understand each other.” Jerome pulls back, eyes roving over Bruce’s face in a way that is becoming just as familiar as the sensation of his arm around him as he leads Bruce along just as he has been for the past hour, up a set of stairs and through a doorway. “You know; we make a good team, you and me.”

“Do we,” Bruce asks, somewhat reluctant to play along, as the world goes bright.

Light bounces off the reflective path in front of them, and no matter where Bruce casts his gaze he sees one thing—him and Jerome, him and Jerome, repeated over and over again. Jerome catches his gaze in one of the mirrors, and it reminds Bruce of when Jerome had been looming behind him while Bruce was sitting in front of the face painter’s mirror. 

That seems so long ago, now. There’s no longer any blood on his mouth, now. The screams of outside are dulled in here, an entire world away, easy to forget.

Jerome is beside him; warm, smiling, alive. Impossible to ignore. 

But Alfred is still dead.

Bruce’s eyes start stinging again and he shuts them, drawing in an unsteady breath. He’s already felt so much anger tonight that he’s burnt himself out, and all that’s left is sorrow. Beside him Jerome pauses. Bruce’s eyes flicker partway open to gaze at one of their reflections from under his eyelashes. He’s not surprised that Jerome is looking down at him.

“I don’t like it in here.” It’s too bright. He’s too visible. The image of himself and Jerome is reflected everywhere he turns. We make a good team, a good team, a good team. “Can we leave? I’ll go on the ferris wheel with you instead.”

Jerome’s expression twists and his arm wraps tighter, perhaps in an attempt to comfort even though he’s the reason behind the hurt.

“Sure thing, darlin’.”

And after the ferris wheel Bruce is getting out of here, one way or another. 

The ferris wheel is on the opposite end of the fairgrounds and as they slowly make their way towards it Jerome takes on an obvious quest to try and lighten Bruce’s dark mood. He cracks jokes and gives him cotton candy and even forces one of the booths to stop using citizens as targets so that he can win Bruce a prize that he can actually carry around with him—a little heart-shaped keychain with ‘Gotham Carnival of Dreams’ embossed upon it—without hurting anyone in the process since he has, at long last, seemingly clued in to the fact that Bruce has been against people being hurt this entire time. Bruce—who had expected frustration, anger, a demand to be happy or to at least pretend to be or else—slips the keychain into his pocket and picks at his cotton candy and tries not to feel touched. 

If anything about this situation were normal…

“You killed Alfred,” he says without prompting, staring up at the lights of the ferris wheel as they wait in the lineup. “He was the only family I had left.” The truth is painful and grounding all at once. Someday, hopefully soon, Jerome will face punishment for his crimes, but that won’t change what has already come to pass and neither will killing him. Bruce will not kill him. Bruce will not kill. “I miss him, and I hate you for taking him away from me. No matter how convincing and charismatic you are it’s not going to change what you did. If that bothers you, then maybe you should just give me my public death after all.”

He’s not sure what to expect—Jerome is erratic, unpredictable, strange in absolutely every way. If Bruce hadn’t been directly told that it was his bravery in the face of danger and attempt at manipulation for more time which had first piqued Jerome’s interest in him he wouldn’t have any idea what brought about the fonder attention that’s been throwing him off all night. Maybe Jerome will decide it’s not worth any more wasted time if Bruce isn’t going to give him what he wants. Maybe Jerome will stubbornly ignore Bruce’s words, sure that he can charm Bruce into forgetting his many transgressions. Maybe Jerome will hold his hand or pet his hair softly or—

“I don’t really get it,” Jerome tells him. “I’d lie about understanding, or about being sorry, but I think you’d know better. I killed my family, after all.”

Bruce supposes he appreciates the honesty. If Jerome had offered him a disingenuous apology he might have pushed him off of the steps and started to run before allowing one last tender memory to be made. But that is what he’ll do, afterwards. He’ll run into the night and he won’t let himself be caught. He doesn’t stand out so much from the crowd that he’ll be an obvious target when Jerome follows after him after he’s picked himself up from the ground. 

“I know that you did. You told me the night we met, when you were trying to lure me out of my hiding spot.”

Jerome is silent for a long moment. It feels almost peaceful.

“You came out of hiding for him, back then,” Jerome eventually says. “I don’t really understand that, either.”

“Wanting to protect someone?”

“I suppose.”

That…

That sounds sad. Sounds lonely. Jerome, on the night that they’d met, had seemed almost like an adult to Bruce even after his disguise had been shed. He was bigger and stronger; he picked Bruce up into his arms with ease and tore him away from Alfred, carrying him onto the stage to hold him at knifepoint. He doesn’t seem so much older anymore, although the gap between them has closed by only one and a half years. He doesn’t seem old enough to be so apathetic, so jaded.

He’d sounded so sure of himself, so reasonable, as he spoke to Bruce about excuses and blessings to enact violence. ‘Kill them, it doesn’t matter,’ he’d said, and his eyes were intense with a need for Bruce to understand, to appreciate, to acknowledge his words as truths. ‘It doesn’t.’

Bruce feels a pang in his chest.

How did someone like Jerome _become_ someone like Jerome in the first place?

Why did you kill your parents, he thinks. Why are you so sure that death doesn’t matter?

He’s not sure if knowing would be better or worse. He’s not sure if it will enrage him or make him miserable. He’s not sure if he’ll want to push Jerome down once they’re off of the ferris wheel or if he’ll want to hold his hands tight and not let go.

Jerome pulls him forward. Bruce follows. They sit side by side once again. 

The sounds of the carnival fade as they rise. When they reach the summit Bruce looks out from above and he can almost forget the horrors that are actually happening below and that the person sitting beside him, unsubtly shifting closer while his arm stretches across the back of the seat, is the reason behind it all.

It would be nice to allow himself to forget, just for a few minutes, just for a few cycles. It would be nice to play at being a normal teenager with normal problems. It would be nice to pretend that the teenager beside him hadn’t come back from the dead with his first thought being slitting Bruce’s throat. It would be nice to pretend that this was something he had asked for and was given out of kindness and love before he finally made a break for it. 

Jerome inhales deeply, about to break the silence.

“Jerome, could we stay like this?” Bruce shifts a little closer and he feels Jerome jerk slightly, as if surprised. “Just… Quiet, like this.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jerome nod, and Bruce allows himself to play pretend. He relaxes fully for the first time since the lights at the Manor suddenly went out, leaning against Jerome and not allowing himself to think about anything but the present moment, lest his heart start to break all over again from loss and misery. At first Jerome tenses at Bruce’s casual initiation of contact—which, considering how touchy he has been all night, is either funny or sad. Bruce doesn’t know enough about Jerome to figure out which it is—but after a few seconds he relaxes and his arm winds around Bruce’s shoulders. It feels warm, peaceful, familiar. The world before them is beautiful and flooded with bright, colourful lights.

Leaning against Jerome as he is Bruce is conscious of the feeling of Jerome’s chest rising and falling and is distantly aware that the pace of Jerome’s breathing matches his own. He wonders if Jerome is synchronizing with him on purpose or if it’s just chance. He isn’t very familiar with romance on a personal level, but he thinks that maybe this is the closest thing to it that he’s ever experienced. 

He thinks that, if he dared to look, he’d find that Jerome was gazing at him.

He thinks that, if he dared to look, Jerome might try to steal the kiss that he’d playful asked for when he spoke about teaching Bruce’s childhood bully a lesson.

He feels warm, but he doesn’t look. It wouldn’t be right to lose himself completely.

It’s nice, though, for the short time that it lasts. Less confrontational than the carousel, less disorienting than the spinning thrill-ride. When they disembark after several slow rotations Bruce isn’t sure if the fact that it feels nice is going to make remembering this better or worse when all is said and done and he’s back home again, more alone than he’s ever been. 

He pauses on the platform, just before the stairs, and Jerome pauses beside him.

Bruce turns and looks up, and he allows Jerome one small smile. It feels bittersweet on his mouth. 

It’s time to stop pretending, now.

“Jerome,” he bids softly, and Jerome’s gaze is intense, searching. He’s so focussed on Bruce’s face that he won’t notice Bruce’s hands until they’re pushing him off of the platform. Bruce almost feels guilty, even though he shouldn’t. What he’s about to do is nothing compared to what Jerome has threatened or what he’s done. Jerome will fall a few feet and land on soft ground, briefly stunned, and Bruce will be able to run away and put this vile place behind him. 

But before he can say or do any more chaos erupts near the entrance of the carnival and both of their attention is swept up by it; shouting and running and gunshots being fired into the air, followed by a shouted demand to freeze by a distant but familiar voice.

Detective Gordon.

Jerome grabs onto Bruce’s hand and swiftly pulls him down the stairs, dragging him away from the commotion. 

“Jerome, wait, you can’t just take me.” Bruce digs in his heels and pulls harder than he’d ever tried in order to get away from Jerome previously. Jerome whirls around, still holding onto him, eyes darting from Bruce’s face to beyond Bruce’s shoulder where the sounds of fighting are becoming more evident. “I smiled, you’re not allowed to keep me. If you break our deal I’ll just hate you more.”

“I’m not—” he starts, he stops. Something flashes across his face, an expression there and gone too quick for Bruce to even begin puzzling it over. He looks at Bruce again, eyes piercingly sharp. “I’m not—Bruce, you don’t exactly look like one of the snivelling kidnapping victims of tonight.” His voice is rough with an emotion that Bruce hasn’t heard from him before. Uneasiness. Worry. It makes Bruce feel as though the world is shifting beneath his feet. “If you go running towards the people with guns they might end up shooting you instead of saving you.”

The acidic reply on Bruce’s tongue melts away.

I thought you didn’t understand wanting to protect someone, he thinks. But isn’t that what this is?

“I won’t run towards them, then,” he says. He hears something. A faint call of his name. He turns to look behind him and only sees upheaval; nothing familiar, no one familiar. When he turns back Jerome is still staring at him, is still holding on. “I didn’t buy myself time to survive you only to get killed by the cavalry once your interest in ending my life hit an all-time-low.”

Jerome’s lips twist; a suppressed smile.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Jerome orders. He squeezes Bruce’s hand, too-tight. “I won’t let you forget it if you prove me right by getting hurt.” His fingers very slowly begin to loosen, as if letting go pains him. “And I won’t forgive the ones who did it,” he vows darkly. 

Bruce would respond to the obvious threat and the implications behind it, but he hears it again. His name, his name, how many people knew that he was here? Bruce’s eyes search the crowd. Jerome’s fingertips brush against him, lingering in a way that seems to be on-purpose, as he finally lets go. The horde of Maniax seems to be thinning. A wall of bodies breaks apart, and in the midst of it all Bruce sees—

A familiar suit and a familiar face with a familiar voice shouting his name, eyes ever searching.

Alfred.

Tears flood his eyes and he feels his breath catch, something like a sob building up abruptly in his throat. 

Alfred, Alfred, Alfred.

Something ignites inside of his chest and he whirls around—Alfred is here, Alfred isn’t dead, Alfred came looking for him, Alfred came to save him—and Bruce fists a hand into Jerome’s shirt and tugs him close.

Jerome stares at him, struck speechless for a second time tonight because of Bruce. 

“Alfred’s not dead,” Bruce says. “But if you ever try to hurt him again, directly or indirectly, I’ll make you pay for it.”

He presses a quick kiss to Jerome’s cheek before he turns back around—missing the shock, the wide eyes, the hand automatically raising to press tightly to the spot where Bruce’s lips had touched—darting through the surging crowd towards the person who he’s been in mourning for.

“Alfred!”

He turns. He calls Bruce’s name. His arms spread open.

Running into Alfred’s embrace feels like home and safety and all good things. Bruce tucks his face into his neck and holds him tight, the black lining his eyes already beginning to smudge from his tears. He opens his mouth to say ‘I thought I’d never see you again’ but he can’t get any words out past a weak, “I thought—” before the tears overtake him completely. Alfred holds him tighter and Bruce’s hands dig into his jacket as he grounds himself. Alfred is here. Alfred is alive. Bruce isn’t going to be going home more alone than ever before. Eventually the tears slow and when he peeks over Alfred’s shoulder Jerome is long gone; lost in the crowd, hiding, captured, Bruce can’t be sure.

Bruce doesn’t have it in him to tell himself that he doesn’t care, even though he shouldn’t.

The chaos was quick to start and is quick to end, a few dozen Maniax no match for the force that had come to put a stop to them. Detectives Gordon and Bullock eventually find them, showcasing their concern in their own ways. They all seem surprised that Bruce hasn’t been bled dry, but are either respectful or cautious enough of his emotional state to not ask too many questions about how exactly he managed to survive so much time surrounded by people who would have no doubt loved to watch him die, as the plan had been two hours ago. Bruce is grateful, because he can’t think of any lies that are more believable than the truth at the moment. He’ll have to combine falsehoods with facts, eventually. 

Jerome wanted to show off, an undeniable truth that no one would doubt, before he killed me, a lie that would be easily believed. 

When the commotion begins to settle down, all of the remaining Maniax being cuffed and hauled away, Bruce overhears Detective Gordon barking orders about finding— 

Jerome. Finding Jerome. 

Something flutters in Bruce’s chest; anxious and annoyed and affectionate and amused all at once. 

He doesn’t try to stamp it out of existence. 

When Alfred leads Bruce out of the carnival towards the squad car he and the Detectives had come in they find a pink panda propped up against the windshield. Bruce can’t hold back a startled laugh and, although he’d been eager to hand it off to one of the Maniax when Jerome had originally won it for him, he does pack it away into the squad car to take home with him even though the action makes Alfred give him a scrutinizing look. He doesn’t ask Bruce to explain, but Bruce can tell that he’s full of very reasonable questions, such as why Bruce would want to hold onto anything that would remind him of tonight.

Bruce will think of answers to those questions in the morning. 

Bruce falls asleep against the panda on the drive home, a small smile hidden by synthetic fur. 

He dreams of an arm around him and colourful lights.


End file.
